


the tempest crackles on the leads.

by redhoods



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthurian, M/M, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: They go around the back of the church and Clayton still doesn’t think Matthew has seen him, but there’s something there that reminds him of The Dealer in a way. Flickering images on top of each other, first a preacher in black, then a knight in white, back to the preacher.The shape of him is the same.There’s a horse waiting.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	the tempest crackles on the leads.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: tennyson's sir galahad came out in 1842, thus before the events of undeadwood.
> 
> originally this was gonna be much more like... in depth and cooler but. it's whatever. soft domestic gay stuff got in the way. but also like the dealer stuff jumped out before i was really aware of it. might do more with it, flesh it out into something proper later. but for now, *waves hand*

The chain slips out of Matthew’s shirt when he’s packing up his bag.

Arabella is the one to notice it, pausing where she’s adjusting the saddle on her horse, “What’s that?” She calls, eyeing the medallion as it turns in the sun, reflecting light. At first, she thinks it must be something from his days as a soldier.

Maybe a crucifix.

But when Matthew straightens, it settles against his breastbone, a white shield with a red cross on it.

He frowns at the symbol, rubs his thumb over the face of it before he tucks it back under his layers, “Family heirloom,” he says, easy as he hauls his bag over his shoulder and walks to his own horse.

No one asks about it after that, mostly because they’re more preoccupied with not getting shot full of holes.

\-----

Storms roll in.

Loud booming thunder that leaves Clayton’s teeth on edge, he’s never heard it so loud, like the storm is baring down just above their heads, not up in the clouds. He steps out of the Bullock onto the porch, debating the run to the church. Last time it’d rained, the roof had leaked something fierce and Matthew’d been sick for two weeks after because he’d been too stubborn to leave it.

He sees Matthew immediately though, a dark figure in front of the fresh white paint of the church. He cuts an impressive image, even soaked as he is, and his head is tipped back, face towards the clouds. 

Thunder rolls.

It doesn’t boom.

It rolls across the skies, loud clamoring that seems like it’s everywhere pressing in close to him, to all of them. Like the sky and clouds have come down to kiss the earth.

Still, Matthew stands, face tipped back, letting the rain pour over him.

Miriam comes running from the direction of the Bella Union, a blanket held over her head, dry underneath when she joins him under the awning of the Bullock, “What the hell is he doing?” She snaps as soon as she’s tossed the blanket over one of the creaking chairs.

Clayton shrugs, “I was going to go drag him from the church and he was there.”

“He’s going to get sick again,” she says with a great sigh.

Sighing, Clayton tips his hat down onto his head, “I’ll get him,” he tells her and steps out into the rain. The hat does him very little good and the rain obscures his vision even worse as the water slides off the brim, but like this, in the rain himself, there’s something off about Matthew.

Like there are too many of him existing in one place.

Closer, it looks like steam is sliding off him, but it’s black.

Matthew doesn’t seem to notice him, but turns suddenly, on his heel, and starts walking.

Bewildered, Clayton follows him after sparing a glance back at Miriam.

They go around the back of the church and Clayton still doesn’t think Matthew has seen him, but there’s something there that reminds him of The Dealer in a way. Flickering images on top of each other, first a preacher in black, then a knight in white, back to the preacher.

The shape of him is the same.

There’s a horse waiting.

Between the church and the graveyard.

It has the same there but not there quality that Matthew has, like if Clayton slides his gaze a little right, suddenly the horse is nothing but a skeleton, but he turns his gaze back left and it’s just a horse. Matthew slings onto the back of the horse like it’s nothing, settles himself in the saddle and the image of him shifts and shifts and shifts.

Settles.

A knight in white with a sword at his side, a white shield on his arm emblazoned with a vermillion cross.

His gaze settles on Clayton and his head tips, like he’s curious, “You’re going to catch a cold,” he calls and then snaps the reins. The horse bolts forward, towards Clayton, then through him and the thunder gets louder and louder and louder.

Horses, Clayton realizes, as he tilts his head back, peers up.

It’s horses.

\-----

The storm circles.

Clayton finds himself at Miriam’s house with the others, the four of them sitting quietly as the thunder rolls and pounds, “What the fuck does it mean?” He asks Arabella, who’s still pouring through a book and thus still ignoring anything directed her way.

“It’s not as though he tried to harm you,” Miriam says next to him, but she sounds skeptical at best.

The noise grows louder, louder, louder.

Then stops all at once.

Clayton is the first to move, bolting for the door before the others can stop him. It knocks off the wall and Miriam shouts a chastisement but Clayton is stepping out into the thoroughfare already.

It’s empty of the usual activity of Deadwood, everyone having wisened up and taken to their homes to ride out the storm. Or it’s empty until he slides his gaze right, towards the end by the church. There are Riders, a cluster of knights on horses.

Matthew among them.

“The Wild Hunt,” Arabella breathes, suddenly at his elbow.

“The what now,” Clayton says, not drawing his eyes from Matthew.

There’s a man at the front, golden all over, crown to toe. Actual, real, gold crown. His horse takes steps towards them and Clayton pushes Arabella behind him even as she makes a disgruntled sound, then the man turns his chin, “Galahad.”

Matthew rides at them, turns just before he reaches them, back to them, facing them down, “They’re mine.”

A murmur rolls through the Riders, the only sound Clayton’s heard from them but the thundering of hooves. The man’s hand moves to the sword at his side and behind him Arabella actually squeaks, “That’s _Arthur_ , Clayton,” she says excitedly, “Don’t you get it?”

He doesn’t, not at all but this feels like a bad time to hash his lack of education out with her.

Again.

Matthew’s hand is on the hilt of his sword.

“Galahad,” the man says again, a command.

There’s a man that looks like Matthew, to the left of the one with the crown, older, more severe maybe, and he leans forward, “They are—”

“ _Mine_ ,” Matthew says again and thunder rolls, though unlike the rest of the storm, lightning finally cracks down, strikes the dirt in the middle of the thoroughfare. Smoke billows from the spot and turns to fog, dark and thick as it hangs on the ground, rolls rapidly through the street.

The horses of the other Riders start moving nervously, the Riders themselves confused.

Clayton looks at Matthew and sees Matthew now, a preacher in black and it’s not a sword at his side but a shotgun.

“You’ve made your choice then,” the man in gold says, though he doesn’t sound upset by it.

Perhaps proud.

The man snaps the reins of his horse, calls out an echoing, “We ride!”

And the Riders are gone.

The fog hangs and the horse Matthew is on is nothing but a skeleton once more, the ground still smoking from the lightning. 

“Whoa,” Arabella breathes.

Clayton snorts and circles round the horse to approach Matthew who’s staring down at his own hands, “Matty?” He calls, walks close enough to smack Matthew on the thigh, startle him out of whatever spiral he was letting himself fall down.

Matthew blinks at him, starts to smile, but sneezes instead.

“I’ll get stew,” Arabella says.

Clayton offers him a hand, “Come on, you have to get out of those wet clothes,” he tells him.

“I—” Matthew stops himself, shakes his head and takes the offered hand, sliding down off the horse that merely dissolves into shadows once both of Matthew’s feet are on the ground. Clayton refuses to let him take his hand back so Matthew slides their fingers together, “I can explain?”

Tugging him towards Miriam’s, Clayton huffs, “Not sure I want you to.”

“I want you to!” Miriam declares, waiting for them on her porch. She rounds on Clayton first, smacking him across the arm with a wooden spoon, then Matthew next, “Idiots,” she says fondly.

“ _Nor maiden’s hand in mine_ ,” Arabella is saying when they duck inside and Aloysius is laughing and Matthew groans loudly as Clayton helps him peel out of his wet coat, “Aw, they do mention that you’re very strong though, Matthew,” she says sickly sweet.

Clayton lifts an eyebrow, “What now?”

“Galahad,” Arabella says like it’s an answer.

“What now?”

She sighs noisily and snaps the book closed in her hands, stomping off into the kitchen.

Matthew turns to him, pink across his cheeks, “She was—”

“Oh, I know,” Clayton says, cupping his face, pulling him down into a kiss.

Aloysius makes retching noises behind them and Clayton flips him off.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @vowofenmity on twitter


End file.
